


fragile they must be, those bonds of yours

by highfalutin baby birb (fevered_dreams)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alpha Shiro (Voltron), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Bottom Keith (Voltron), Bottom Shiro (Voltron), Enemies to Partners in Crime to Lovers, Intrigue, M/M, Omega Keith (Voltron), Politics, Royalty, aka they switch guys!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-01-06 14:23:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18390179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fevered_dreams/pseuds/highfalutin%20baby%20birb
Summary: Shiro hates the thought of inheriting his Father’s harem of omegas, but he must. After all, Shiro is in line for the crown now that his father is finally dead. Disrupting the status quo now would be suicide, and he plans to live long enough to at least take the throne.Keith thinks it’s bullshit.“Hello,” is all Shiro gets out before the man lunges again, just far enough to bite a nasty streak through Shiro’s still-flesh arm.But Shiro pays little mind to that. It’s impossible to, he finds, when this mystery man looks so breathtaking before him, lips smeared with Shiro’s blood and eyes shining with retribution.A promise.





	1. Chapter 1

He is beautiful.

They all are, Shiro thinks. If not, he doubts they would even be here in the first place. His Father had always enjoyed the finer things in life — the finest wines, the freshest foods, the purest golds and jewels for his copious adornments that weighed him down something fierce and frivolous, all for the sake of showing of his immense wealth and power.

They say Shiro’s mother had also been quite the stunning little thing. Nothing more than a street urchin, she had been covered in open, still-bleeding wounds and yellowed bruises when they dragged her into the castle, kicking and screaming, begging for mercy.

Shiro’s father never understood mercy.

Mercy was a sweet mistress to be approached with closed palms and welcoming smiles. Mercy didn’t respond well to overt displays of power or demands laced with the crack or a whip and shine of swords. His father had never been particularly adept at any of those things, so mercy seldom came to him.

Shiro likens mercy to a moonsong drifting on the breeze, ephemeral and lucid in the mist. If one breathes in deep enough, they might truly feel her.

They might choke on it.

He thinks he might have known her once as a child. Willful and stubborn as he had been, he had run away from the castle into the nearby forest to escape from it all; back then, he truly believed he could.

Of course, the royal guards easily found him within a small handful of hours, huddled pitifully beneath the brush as the monsoon raged over the nearby coast. Over four dozen people in the coastal village had died that day from the flooding alone, but Shiro, at the very least, had been spared. The maids had even gifted him an extra heaping spoonful of sugar in his hot cocoa that night for his troubles, and his father sent him to bed with a rare smile, hand rested upon Shiro's forehead until he drifted asleep.

And Shiro, young and hopeful as he has been, shivering under piles of plush blankets, foolishly thought that smile meant his father cared. That he was delighted at his darling son’s return. That Shiro wasn’t just another one of his children, plentiful and faceless in the grand scheme of things. That, perhaps he genuinely did know Shiro’s name.

That he loved.

Later, Shiro overheard whispers that His Highness had been so grateful for his son’s return because that meant he could finally lay with his newest addition to his harem in peace. A male omega, barely presented and far too young for such affairs. By the end of the week, he had passed away, stricken with an infection from a horrid hemorrhage. Shiro’s favorite nursemaid, too, lost someone dear then — her mother had been swept away by the monsoon only to be found days later, swollen and repugnant from the high water.

The reports had been terribly vivid. Her tears even more so.

His father hadn’t even blinked at the news. Instead, he spent his days looking for more pretty things to add to his harem, and Shiro concluded that he, too, could not touch mercy.

Not for himself and not for his mother.

Because they say the council members had all tutted and frowned at her, quite frankly, distasteful display of base vulgarity and outright ungratefulness during her arrival. The King of the Arena was doing her a favor, after all. A life within the castle walls was surely more favorable to one out on the streets. Even the harem provided more comforts than destitution, surely.

She had disagreed.

She had no choice.

She had been far too pretty for that and his father far too greedy.

And, once she had fulfilled her duty as a pretty little omega, what befell her mattered little to Shiro’s father.

For she had given birth to a healthy, alpha son. Truly, she performed her duties spectacularly. Shiro had always been one of the more favorable princes, after all.

Except, they say a horrific illness overtook her within days. Even a dirty street urchin like her who has grown up soaked in grime and sickness hadn’t come equipped with proper immunizations against foreign disease brought by the newest addition to the harem.

They say she suffered. They say her blood boiled. They say her sight left her mere hours in, and the sores that erupted across her frame looked nothing short of gruesome. That she begged for mercy — for death to end it once and for all.

And why not? She was certainly going to die sooner or later.

Please, I implore you, let it come sooner. It’ll be so easy. Just give the command. Decry my death.

His father refused. Too busy with refitting the banquet hall with new gold crowning to impress future guests to tend to a forgotten, useless whore.

So, they say, she suffered and could not even hold her own son upon her death bed lest she make Shiro ill, too. 

But she had wanted to. In her final hours, she cried for Shiro endlessly. He, too, apparently cried for her, to his father's annoyance, though he remembers nothing of the sort. 

Today, they say his father had been a shrewd man but a well-enough King.

Yet Shiro detests him.

And now, even in the wake of his death, he mocks Shiro.

Never before has Shiro paid much mind to the Arena’s infamous harem, filled to the brim with the finest omegas across several lands. After picking up all the royal whispers and gossip over the years regarding the heinous going-on's there, he would rather gut himself open in the middle of the Snow Shriek than rest a single foot within the harem halls.

Except, the High Council summoned him here, and not even he can deny them.

“Here he is. I do not believe His Highness ever laid with him, so he is yours to claim now.”

Shiro nods dumbly. He’s not even sure who speaks to him now, so preoccupied he finds himself with the man in front of him.

Galran. The man standing before him is definitely Galran despite the pink tint of his skin. He has that signature yellow in his sclera. The long fangs he bares as he snarls at Shiro are also quite telling. His restraints, too, do not match those they use for weaker, human captives; instead, they are thrice-bolted and at least four-times as thick. Regardless, he struggles, continues to thrash and snarl past the blood that wells across his wrist, and Shiro might commend him for his tenacity and the way he remains absolutely stunning throughout.

He definitely would if he weren’t so taken aback.

“I don’t — “ Shiro spots Sendak frown derisively his way at the hesitance, and he curses himself for it. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you’re telling me.”

This time, Sendak’s expression turns impatient. “His Highness’ harem is yours now.”

“I don’t recall ever requesting to be given… such a thing, and my father never informed me of this exchange when he spoke to me before passing,” Shiro says slowly.

Sendak shrugs. He’s far past impatient now. Always has been, when it came to issues beyond war and torturing prisoners. “This is just one of his His Highness’ final orders that we have been instructed to follow. If I recall correctly, he believes owning the harem will prove an excellent challenge for you.” Sendak smiles conspiratorially. “And you know how much His Highness enjoyed challenging you.”

Of course Shiro does. The scars raking across nearly every expanse of his skin speak volumes — odes of deliverance, sink or swim lullabies that, sometimes, he picks apart raw and bloody on especially trying nights to keep him alert. The exhaustion likes to creep and claw over him cloyingly, at times, but the Council rarely looks upon such weakness favorably.

And they will be the one to appoint the next King of the Arena.

Not to mention, the weight of Shiro prosthetic affixed to his right shoulder serves as a wonderfully poignant reminder of his late father’s challenges. To some, it might even be poetic.

To others, it makes him look even weaker.

But he will be King. He must become King.

So, he swallows down the bile that rises in his throat and steps forward towards his — his concubine, apparently, one of his now many because even in death does his father mock him.

“Hello,” is all Shiro gets out before the man lunges again, this time just far enough to bite a nasty streak through Shiro’s still-flesh arm.

The room bursts into a frenzy. From the corner of his eye, Shiro swears he spots Sendak smirking at him as watches Shiro bleed with all the rapt attention a teenage boy gives his newest paramour.

But Shiro pays little mind to the implications behind that. It’s impossible to, he finds, when this mystery man looks so breathtaking before him, lips smeared with Shiro’s blood and eyes shining with stunning retribution.

A promise.

Shiro wonders if this fascination ties him closer to his father. They say His Highness had been drawn to his mother for her constant rebuffs. Faintly, Shiro questions if the same wretched phenomenon has overtaken him, too.

Stars above, he hopes not.

And yet, he cannot deny himself one last glance behind him and over his shoulders as they escort him away.

The man stares right back, undeterred by the way several guards holster him down roughly. One even strikes him straight across the cheek with enough force to crack.

But he does not look away. Their eyes catch like a broken point on smooth skin up until the moment Shiro rounds the corner. And, even then, he still sees those eyes.

Yellow. Fierce. So, so beautiful.

Dangerous. This is dangerous, and Shiro is slipping fast.

 

* * *

 

 Three days trudge by in a haze of terse diplomacy before Shiro discovers that the man’s name is Keith. Regrettably, he finds out as much from a source other than the man himself. One of his more gossip-attuned guards, Lance, tells him so as he helps to clean and redress Shiro’s wound.

“Keith really got you good, huh?” Lance notes, offhand. “I guess a nice set of Galra fangs will do that to you. Too bad you didn’t inherit any of that.”

“Keith?” Shiro asks.

Lance cocks his head to the side in question. “Yeah, that new omega His Highness thrust upon you right before he died. Or, right after he died, I suppose.” He leans in close, away from prying eyes and eager ears. “He’s proving to be quite the feisty one. Extremely mouthy and violent to boot. People are anticipating and speculating on the day you… break him. They want you to prove that you can.”

Shiro very nearly retches at the mere thought. As it stands, he still cannot stop the gag collecting in the back of his throat.

Hastily, Lance coughs up a fake lung to cover up the noise. Gossip travels fast in these halls, after all, and every little thing can be damning.

Shiro mouths a quick thank you once his stomach settles. Lance accepts it with little fanfare.

“My apologies for being so crass about it, but that’s just how it is right now. You know how much some members of the Council enjoyed His Highness’ more… base activities.”

“I know,” Shiro breathes because he does. Sendak, most certainly, always enjoyed another tale of his father’s latest omega conquest. Especially the ones who resisted. Varkon, too, reveled in them. To them, claiming and marking omegas proved little more than a game — a fun way to pass the time while displaying one’s prowess as a virile alpha.

And the Arena Council simply adored their alpha’s.

They sit together in silence for some time as Lance continues to pin down Shiro’s dressings. The quiet weighs Shiro down something fierce, as does Lance’s expectant glances, but he refuses to speak now; he’s grown tired these past few days from the constant uproar from all sides in the wake of his father’s untimely — and extremely delayed — passing. Surely he deserves a break now.

Lance disagrees.

He digs his knobby fingers into Shiro’s wounds, only to let up at the sound of Shiro’s pained hiss.

“You can't ignore this for much longer. They grow further restless with each passing second,” Lance insists.

“It’s only been three days,” Shiro argues weakly.

“Three days is an awfully long time to wait for those with nothing else to occupy their time.”

Lance speaks the truth, and the truth infuriates Shiro. Over the course of three days, he has found it impossible to go more than a mere hour without thinking of his new omega concubine — Keith, apparently. Quite frankly, Shiro considers the name ‘Keith’ to be far too banal for such a marvelous creature. The name comes out harshly and dips into an impressive lilt with little substance on the tongue.

And Keith is anything but.

Perhaps the shock and fatigue has clouded Shiro’s judgement. After all, he knows just how much memories can be altered with enough trauma and torture. He has seen the effects first-hand many a time, starting at the age of seven. So, it’s not inconceivable to think that the shock and stress of the past few days have warped this Keith figure into an image beyond his truth. Into something undeniable and unfathomable.

An absolute beauty, willful in his approach and rooted in conviction, fitted with beautiful, inescapable eyes of a silver Shiro has never quite seen before. Slender yet formidable. Likely powerful enough to rip Shiro’s shoulders from the socket with a single flick of his wrist, provided he had enough leverage a la not being restrained so deftly.

A desirable person. An omega with a lovely scent that appeals to Shiro’s baser desires with a ferocity that none of his father’s concubines ever has.

Desirable.

An omega.

 

* * *

 

Keith is still desirable two days later when Shiro finally enters the harem chambers once more.

And he is still here. The Council will not allow Shiro to release Keith so easily. They, too, challenge and mock him. Because, in their own, twisted way, they also want the best for the Arena.

They want to know if Shiro will be the best.

So, for now, Shiro can do little besides bow his head and hope they don’t yet see fit to slice it clean off to hang upon their pedestals — a warning against failure for the ones that remain.

“You’re back. And here I was, thinking that maybe I’d manage to kill you with that bite of mine.”

Shiro pauses in the doorway to Keith’s quarters. The walls within are dilapidated, and the frame of the old bed he sits upon peels away apart in rusted flakes. Though, part of that might be a result of his restraints; they’ve fixed him to the steel bed posts by his wrists, and he’s no doubt struggled against them valiantly these past few days.

But, despite all that and the pure, unadulterated rage that flirts across his face, Keith is still beyond desirable.

Shiro swallows hard before speaking. “If only it were that easy.”

Keith cocks an eyebrow up, considering. “Yes, it certainly took quite some time for your old man to finally keel over, didn’t it? A shame I wasn’t the one he had in bed with him at the time. I think that would’ve left me positively _ecstatic_.”

“He certainly has been a stubborn asshole,” Shiro mutters beneath his breath.

Once again, Keith gazes up at Shiro, contemplative, before responding. “Well, now that daddy dearest is gone, are you finally here to reap the rewards? I must admit, I was starting to think that maybe you’d forgotten about me. I can only wish for so much, I suppose.”

“I’m not here to — to claim you.”

“Then what are you here for?” Keith asks flatly.

“To talk.”

Keith bares his teeth, and his restraints rattle raucously. “As if I have any mind to speak with you. If you’re not gonna ‘induct’ me into your fucking harem then just let me go! Then, we can both be on our merry way, and you and the rest of your cozy little castle members can continue sucking this nation dry to feed yourselves!”

Shiro strides over quickly, carefully clapping his metal hand over Keith’s mouth to avoid being torn to shreds by his fangs once more. His arm aches at the reminder, along with the effort it takes to hold Keith down.

“Peace!” Shiro implores. “Don’t speak so loudly, or they’ll hear.”

“Let them hear. I want them to know just how I feel,” Keith hisses, startlingly clear past Shiro’s palm. He thrashes further beneath Shiro’s grip, and Shiro must fling the entirety of his own body weight above Keith’s to stay him. Like this, Shiro can feel just how thin Keith has become these past few days, from the press of his ribs and hipbones against Shiro’s.

“Look, I came here with a proposition in mind, but I can only discuss it properly if you keep quiet,” Shiro explains. “I cannot risk any of the Council members catching wind of this, or else it’ll all be for naught.”

“And what makes you think I care?” Keith demands.

Shiro inhales deeply. Beneath him, Keith still looks as lovely as ever, but Shiro can nonetheless feel his irritation rising as Keith futilely gnaws at his prosthetic.

Though, at least this means he has yet to turn into the fiend his father was.

“I would think you’d care because you’re destined to rot away here for the rest of your life otherwise,” Shiro whispers. “Which will likely be short-lived if I don’t claim you. You don’t know what they’ll do to you, eventually.”

“I think I do. I’m an _omega_ , after all,” Keith hisses, and his words sear Shiro so deep it feels as though Shiro’s very lungs have been set ablaze. “I know what they do to omegas in places like this. I’m not daft.”

Shiro blinks back tears.

He knows what they did to his mother once she became obsolete in his father’s eyes. No one had to say anything for him to understand what the hunted look in her eyes meant.

He had just turned six when she fell ill. Most of his memories of her consist of deep, hand-shaped bruises and blood in the toilet.

He does not want a repeat. In fact, a resurgence might actually kill him.

At the same time, he simply cannot afford to look weak now, especially not in front of Keith here, even if his words sting in their veracity. Because he needs Keith’s help, and, if his mother taught him anything, it is that tears are seldom as moving as one hopes.

So, he blinks, swallows, and even utters a silent prayer to the God Mother he never truly believed in, just in case.

“Then you have nothing to lose by listening to my proposition, yes?”

Finally, Keith settles. The silence between them stretches for eons, far-flung into a remote galaxy where the stars sing lovely hymns of grace and grandeur, and distinctions such as omega, betas, and alphas have no place.

A lovely, peaceful world teeming with love where Shiro’s mother yet lives, happy and hale, bolstered by dreams oft won.

A place where Shiro is not a prince to many, waiting and watching his nation drive his people towards death.

Finally, Keith settles, and he says, “Fine. Let’s hear it then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've had this idea bouncing around for some time, so i finally decided to write it!! please tell me what you think :)
> 
> if you want to talk to me or want to know more about how you can support me or request a piece of writing, you can find me on [tumblr](https://highfalutinbabybirb.tumblr.com) and on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/highfalutinBaby)! i'm always happy to talk about whatever :)
> 
> (also bc i'm lonely, pls talk to me)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shiro begins with him, slicing a thin, shallow cut right over Keith’s old, barely-faded sounds. That rich, crimson blood returns again, sliding down Keith’s wrist in an arc that a mathematician would likely be considered absolutely poetic. The formula to describe it must be long and sprawling — something to be sought after by long, sleepless nights of heavy scrutiny and tireless study.

“I have no interest in claiming you,” Shiro begins, ever bit abrupt and graceless as he tries not to be. Though, presently, he struggles to be anything except obtusely straightforward with Keith sitting there, glaring up at him with those lovely eyes and deep-set frown.

“I’m flattered,” Keith says flatly. He gazes at Shiro unimpressed, expression verging on bored in spite of the blood oozing thick and warm down his arms.

Shiro watches. Keith’s blood is crimson and thick, just like Shiro’s. It runs over and across his arms in long rivulets, splitting apart from itself and in thin fragments, and Shiro watches them all.

The thinnest line of them all breaks first. As if suspended by time, the droplet pauses mid-air. Thick, warm, fresh, and alive. It seems to pulse before his very eyes. Shiro watches the gleam it casts, and he wonders if one can go blind from this.

It falls. Time goes on, and Shiro breathes again.

He approaches slowly. Silk handkerchief in hand, hand-woven and emblazoned with the Arena’s insignia by gaudy,  
gold-soaked threads, Shiro moves forward hesitantly, and he finds the scene reminiscent of the tale one of his nursemaids once told him — the one with the boy and the monster.

The boy considered himself a brave and fierce man despite his inexperience, gifted with tremendous power and intelligence wide enough to sink the abyss twice-over. So, he went off an a grand adventure with nothing more than the clothes on his back and sword by his side, enchanted by the Royal Witch, spurred on by his own never-ending confidence. Gifted with the power of foresight, she sent him on his way, and she prayed.

Much of his journey passed by with surprising ease. At every juncture and with each passing creature, the boy breezed by his obstacles with little trouble. And, with each fell of a beast, his sword gleamed red, and the boy rejoiced in his prowess, for the course of the journey was anything but surprising to him. Of course it would be easy. Mundane, even. That was to be expected for someone as valiant and talented as him. Success always came easily. He made sure of it.

As such, the boy’s interests grew piqued upon talk of a ferocious monster wreaking havoc on the livestock and beautiful maidens of a nearby village. Surely, slaying a monster would be an easy task for him, for he was extraordinary.

The next day, the boy set off on another quest, and, that day, he died. He died crying, begging for mercy as the monster tore him apart — starting fingers first before working its way to the jugular. Gotta make the boy suffer first, after all. Otherwise, there would be no point. No moral to the story, warning against the perils of hubris.

No sad, heartfelt concluding because, in the end, The Royal Witch — the boy’s mother — had watched it all through the sword, and she mourned.

Except, Shiro doesn’t exactly think about all those specifics and semantics now, smothered in the pervasive heat and scents imbued in the harem walls. He just wonders what, exactly, the monster had looked like.

Plenty of things know how to hurt, after all.

Keith flinches away from his approaching hand like a kicked puppy about to be branded and burned, and Shiro finds himself spurned by the rejection.

“Don’t! I don’t need your help,” Keith hisses, teeth bared and jaw set firm.

“You’re bleeding. I was just going to help clean you off a bit,” Shiro says quietly.

“I’d rather you didn’t touch me.”

Shiro’s frowns tightly before he lowers his arm, slow like a thick drag through burnt molasses. The handkerchief goes limp in his hand. Mocking in the way the silk slides so effortlessly in his palm, all decoration and woefully useless.

Keith relaxes the slightest bit when Shiro pulls away. Then, he speaks again. “Well? Spit it out. Or did you really just come here to tell me about how repulsed you are by me?”

“That’s not what I said, and you know it. But I _did_ say holds true. I have no interest in claiming you as one of my omega concubines,” Shiro repeats. “But everyone else… does.”

“Yes, I know. They come barreling in here every so often, placing bets about when — or if — you’ll ever finally fuck me while they adjust my restraints,” Keith says dryly. “They’re not exactly shy about it. In fact, I’m quite certain they have a betting pool going around for it. There’s a lot of money involved, you know. Best not disappoint them all.”

“Of course there’s a betting pool for this. As if they have nothing better to do,” Shiro hisses under his breath.

Because, as always, the Council sits idly by, watching for all the alpha princes to prance around like show dogs to be judged. Eventually, they’ll declare a winner. That, or they’ll simply wait with their thumbs in their ass until the universe collapses in on itself, and life will go on as always until then.

Sometimes, Shiro thinks it might not be so bad — living in this stasis, waiting for the Arena to implode from within the way it should have years ago. It would certainly be easier to wait and watch. Perhaps it would even be fun, at times.

But then he thinks of young, dreaming boys and monster lurking in the corners, sinister and terrible real, and he realizes he can’t do this anymore. Can’t sit around and wait because the monsters are everywhere, and even nasty little boys deserve to live.

He continues.

“Well, taking that into account, I assume you’ve come to realize how much many people here value… an alpha’s virility,” Shiro says carefully.

Keith scoffs, and his chains rattle. “That’s an understatement. It feels like all your men are capable of talking about when they’re here is all the pretty little omegas your father claimed and kept locked up in here. Sometimes they even reminisce about the specific claiming methods he went through, like they were glorious war battles he won.”

Shiro snorts derisively. “Sounds about right.”

“But you say you don’t want to claim me. Is that it? You just want to let me know how much a good person you are before leaving me to rot in here?”

“No! Just — just listen to me,” Shiro says impatiently.

“I will when you finally start actually saying something,” Keith snaps.

Shiro sighs so hard this chest rattles and prismatic sunbeams streak across the back of his eyes. He can already feel the headache blooming across his temples, and the saccharine-laden incense permeating throughout the harem halls never sat well with him.

It’s to hide the individual scents of all the omegas, they always told him. Except, he thinks it just makes them smell even worse.

Haunting. Cloying. Inescapable and so _fucking_ strong. Keith’s scent, too, rides hardy and heavy over the fumes, and Shiro can hardly stand it.

He’s weak. He knows that, deep in his bone. One day, someone will scrape out his bone marrow with a crystal spoon, and they will surely uncover each and every one of his weaknesses festering in his blood.

But, hopefully they won’t find regret.

“I’m here to offer you a deal, of sorts,” Shiro begins, holding his breath the best he can. “As you’ve deduced, everyone wants to see me claim you. Not only for sport but also so I can prove myself to them as a proper alpha. If I don’t, I’ll lose favor with the Council and other influential figures around the castle.”

Keith nods curtly, encouraging Shiro to continue.

“However, as I’ve said before, I have no real interest in making you my omega. I can’t simply ignore you, though, or people will grow suspicious and bored of me. Thus, I propose we work together to put up a sort of… charade to appease everyone.”

“You want to pretend as if I’m one of your claimed omegas without actually doing so?” Keith questions. “Look, I know a lot of the people around here are simple-minded assholes, but I doubt they’re _that_  dull. It’ll be easy to tell we haven’t bonded with a single wrinkle of the nose.”

“That’s why we’ll make up a bit of a story between us. We’ll let everyone think that you’re particularly stubborn, and I’m just wearing you down piece by piece. Knowing them, they’ll consider it interesting. Me, toying with you, probably.”

Keith cocks his head to the side. He still bleeds, but the red trails creep by slower now, and Shiro can’t seem to pay attention to them as much when Keith looks at him so intently with those gleaming gray eyes of his.

“All this just so you can sit back and save face while this nation goes to shit,” Keith whispers, and his words sting. They hit Shiro deep because he’s right, and Shiro has always been in the wrong.

Weak in his bones. Wrong, too, it seems.

He tries to explain himself regardless. “I’m well-aware of the issues the Arena faces right now, especially after my father’s reign as King, but that’s exactly why I want to avoid engendering the ire of the Council. Otherwise, they’ll never appoint me as King.”

”Well-aware my ass. You’re too busy worrying about this damn Council or yours to see anything past the asses you keep sticking your nose up,” Keith snarls. Get your head out of your ass and look around for once. Properly. They already know exactly what they want. They’re just stringing you along like a starving dog and a leash for sport, at this point, and you’re nothing more than a sorry figurehead to them.”

“Not to all of them. I know of a select few whose favor leans towards me, as opposed to the other heirs.”

“And who is the most favored of them all?”

Shiro swallows. “Lotor.”

Keith snorts. “Of course he is. I’m beginning to think that you’re actually quite useless in this whole thing. I mean, if I were you, I’d just kill Lotor myself and be done with him. That’s one less competitor, after all.

“If only politics were that easy. I’d probably be exiled for it, if not tortured to death,” Shiro murmurs. “Anyway, will you consider it?”

“Will I consider wiping your ass for you, you mean?”

Shiro bares his teeth impatiently. “And why not? What else could you possibly do, just sitting here with no other prospects?”

“I was thinking of biting my own tongue off, actually.”

“Well, while you ponder over that possibility, perhaps you’d like to consider other options. Like mine,” Shiro says. Suddenly, he feels exhausted, but Keith simply smiles up at him sharply before turning away.

Shiro spares Keith one last glance, but Keith’s already begun to close himself off once more.

There’s not much else to be accomplished today, Shiro concludes. He stands up and almost hurls when the sugar-spun scent of the incense strikes him even harder than before and then turns to leave.

“Why do you let this continue? You have to know how outdated this whole system the Arena keeps ahold of is. Even the neighboring kingdoms are growing tired of these _displays_ of yours. I’d think now would be the perfect time to try to enact some changes around here, starting with this harem of yours. Because it is yours now, you know,” Keith calls out behind him.

Shiro turns slowly. He doesn’t want to see the disgust in Keith’s eyes just yet. “The Council would disapprove of any drastic changes to the castle’s inhabitants and hierarchy now, and I need them on my side if I’m to ascend.”

Keith scoffs, and he might very well despise Shiro. “And where will your beloved Council be when you do? Kissing your ass or sucking your cock?”

“Neither. They’ll be dead.”

Keith smirks. “Now you’re talking.”

 

* * *

 

Two days later, Romelle approaches Shiro with news.

She finds him huddled in the Royal Library, surrounded by sunken, slipping piles of official documents and old almanacs detailing the various exports and imports of each and every town across the Arena over the past few years. Carefully, so as not to disturb or damage any documents, she sets down a cup of tea and waits.

“Thank you,” Shiro says, offhand and far-away. “You’re wonderful.”

“Your Highness, I didn’t come here just to hand you tea. I regret to inform you that I don’t have that much free time on my hands.”

He looks up, laugh buried deep in the back of his teeth. “Of course you don’t. My apologies. Is it a serious matter? I’m a bit busy here. Several towns have been asking for additional resources with all the recent uproar, and I’m trying to decide which request require the most immediate attentions.”

“I would think that this would be a job for the Minister of Domestic Affairs,” Romelle says.

“Yes, but I’m afraid he’s busy right now, traveling to Wentes with his son to study the goods and services there for future reference.”

“Oh, yes, of course. It would be a shame and great disservice to us all if he didn’t investigate all those brothels quintessence dens quite thoroughly,” Romelle responds smoothly, lips downturned and gaze displeased.

Shiro can only shrug. “Such is the life when one doesn’t have his own convenient harem of omegas to toss around.”

Romelle huffs rudely in agreement before taking the cup of tea and drinking it all herself in one, fell asleep.

“Never mind that, though. What did you come here for?”

“Keith wants to speak to you.”

Shiro sucks in a sharp breath, only to cover it up with clearing his throat with the most exaggerated dredging up of old phlegm he can manage.

Romelle remains unmoved.

“Did he say why?” Shiro asks.

“Not really. He just said you would understand, and that it would behoove you to speak with him sooner rather than later,” Romelle replies. “He also enjoys custard pie quite a bit, so it might also do you some good to bring him some of those, too.”

“You sounds like you’ve gotten quite close to him already,” Shiro notes.

“Well, you know how it is. We omegas have to stick together, especially when we’re not the ones desperately trying to become the next consort.” She shrugs. “I can’t, and he has no interest. It’s not difficult to find a bit of common ground, all things considered. Otherwise, I’m afraid I’ll remain alone for the rest of my life.”

Her wrist goes limp, and now Shiro can see the leftover tea leaves in her cup. He had never been one for fortune telling, but they look ominous nonetheless.

Hastily, he clears his throat and rises. “Thank you for letting me know. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Would you like me to help you go through some of these records while you’re gone?” she asks. Without even waiting for his response, she begins sorting through the documents, and Shiro only has to nod before she sets to work.

‘We omegas have to stick together.’

As he absentmindedly collects a few custard pies from Hunk in the kitchen, Shiro wonders.

He wonders if being an enslaved concubine or abandoned and ridiculed for being barren is worse for an omega.

Then, he stops wondering because he’s weak and doesn’t want to think about such things right now.

 

* * *

  

“About time you got here,” Keith says when Shiro steps into his room. He’s still restrained, as expected, but the old metal cuffs and chains have been replaced with softer fabrics. Finally, his wounds have begun to heal.

“Nice to see your tongue’s still intact,” Shiro quips back. “I’m glad. You’ll need it to eat these pies I brought you.”

He gets a smile in response — an almost genuine one, and Keith is desirable all over again.

“Get me out of these restraints and hand them over, yeah? I can eat perfectly well myself, if all of you would just let me.”

“But how will I know you won’t hurt me?” Shiro asks, even after he’s already unfastened one of them.

“If I really wanted to hurt you, I would’ve done so a long time ago,” Keith states.

Shiro stares at Keith’s fangs and the short remnants of claws the guards have undoubtedly cut away. “Honestly, I don’t doubt it,” Shiro says, thinking about Lance’s words.

Because, sometimes, he really does regret not inheriting much from his Galra father. Most of the time, however, he’s grateful.

The moment he’s free, Keith reaches for the custard pies. He eats them eagerly, as if he’s been thoroughly neglected and starved; in hindsight, he probably has been these past few days. He’s already begun to lose weight and muscle mass, Shiro notes.

It makes him look pitiful. After all, he looked far better with more meat on his bones and all that stunning lean muscle swathing his body.

Shiro nearly prostrates himself then and there for the thought.

“I’ve been thinking about your proposal,” Keith says after one pie has been thoroughly devoured. “To be honest, I think it’s a horrible idea. Any kind of charade or story we come up with can only last for so long. People will either grow suspicious or lose faith in you entirely, and neither will do us any good, you know.”

“It’s not as though our… _relationship_ will remain stagnant until the next King’s succession,” Shiro counters. “We’ll give them a grand show to bear witness to, full of all the drama these tired, old men can’t seem to get enough of. Not to mention, the more I gain favor with the Council, the more I can bend the rules. Not by a lot, mind you, but enough to keep our interests aligned.”

“And where, exactly, do you think my interests lay?” Keith asks.

“I had assumed you’d want to be free of all this. Rid of this place forever and free to go wherever you please,” Shiro says.

Keith’s expression hardens as he finishes up his second pie. “Would you promise me that? A soul-bound oath to let me do as I please if I go along with this ridiculous scheme of yours?”

“Of course. Even if I don’t ascend to the throne, I’ll make sure you get out of here.”

Keith stares on wordlessly. He has one pie left, still warm and cloyingly sumptuous based on the smell wafting off of it, but he makes no move to touch it. Instead, he bears his gaze down into Shiro’s face with a grim determination Shiro can’t quite explain. He can’t even really stand having such pointed attention directed at him like this, but he refuses to look away because Keith needs this.

And so does Shiro.

Finally, Keith finds peace in something. He draws his gaze away, uses one hand to stuff the final pie into his mouth before thrusting his other arm out to Shiro.

“Do it, then. Establish the oath.”

“Are you sure?” Shiro asks.

“I am if you are.”

And that’s that.

Without another word, Shiro pulls out his dagger from his side, unsheathing it. Within the lowlights encompassing each and every crevice of the harem — mood lighting, apparently — Shiro instinctively flinches away from the terribly bright gleam the blade produces.

Keith, on the other hand, doesn’t react in the slightest. He remains stalwart and determined, wrist the ready the whole time. Shiro begins with him, slicing a thin, shallow cut right over Keith’s old, barely-faded sounds. That rich, crimson blood returns again, sliding down Keith’s wrist in an arc that a mathematician would likely be considered absolutely poetic. The formula to describe it must be long and sprawling — something to be sought after by long, sleepless nights of heavy scrutiny and tireless study.

Suddenly, Shiro wishes arithmetics were his strong suit.

He cuts a long line across his own wrist to keep those notions at bay. His own blood doesn’t flow nearly as nicely, and it clumps almost immediately upon contact. So, he moves quickly.

His arm seems to move beyond his volition as it presses down against Keith’s. They both turn their arms in different directions, and Keith’s blood _burns_ as it floods through his own.

“Upon my soul and all that it is, I swear to uphold this oath. I will get you out of here, lest my soul rot away to be feasted upon by the vengeful spirits of the underworld,” Shiro intones gravely.

Keith follows suit, with his own spin. “Upon my soul and all that it is, I swear to uphold this oath. I will follow this half-assed, poorly thought-out plan you’ve come up with as best as I can. I will dutifully wish for your exalted ascension so you can hopefully make this nation a little less of a hellhole to live in, lest my soul rot away to be feasted upon by the vengeful spirits of the underworld.”

Shiro allows himself a single wry chuckle before pulling away. Their blood continues to flow freely, but they cannot attempt to clot it or wash it away before it stops naturally, or else the oath will grow tainted from the interference. Quickly, Shiro goes to grab a basin for the both of them to hover their wrists over to avoid suspicion.

“I think this might actually be one of the worst decisions I’ve ever made,” Keith announces a few minutes later.

“I suppose I can’t argue with you there,” Shiro whispers.

“And yet here we are.” Keith turns to Shiro, and he almost looks pleased. “While we wait, maybe we should actually do a bit of real planning. Hoping for the best never gets you far, I’ve discovered.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you think i'm ever gonna stop making romelle a pertinent character in my stories then you're wrong because she deserved so much better and that's a fact
> 
> anyway, please let me know what you think!!
> 
> if you want to talk to me or want to know more about how you can support me or request a piece of writing, you can find me on [tumblr](https://highfalutinbabybirb.tumblr.com) and on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/highfalutinBaby)! i'm always happy to talk about whatever :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They look at him with a different kind of desire. A kind Keith is intimately acquainted with himself. They look on, always.
> 
> Like starved dogs.
> 
> Everyone here is starved.

In the end, they decide on their first course of action. Namely, attending the next royal banquet together.

“It’ll show that I’ve gone ahead and taken some initiative when it comes to you,” Shiro had said as they waited for the oath to be struck, blood dripping slowly — tediously slow, all while reflecting Keith’s face within its red casing. Within lay a grotesque caricature of his countenance, something unfamiliar and undesired. He yearned to recoil from the sight, but, for some reason, he couldn’t stand to tear himself away for long.

Perhaps Keith had always looked that horrid.

The drop fell. Keith’s despicable face went with it. More blood followed after it like babes before the weaning. An proper oath required a proper blood-letting, so still they remained. Waiting. Watching. Wondering when it’d be time for Keith to shear his own skin apart at the suspense. Patience had never been a virtue he held close, after all.

Such things were typically reserved for his mother.

But there Shiro sat, patiently perched atop Keith’s bed. The frame looked so small and flimsy bearing the brunt of two people. Truly, the scene it painted was certainly sardonic. For Shiro’s quarters were probably far nicer than the ones they had dumped Keith in, and he surely could only look upon Keith’s barren room with a kind of pitying disgust Keith abhorred to take in. After all, that grimace plastered across Shiro’s face was probably nothing more than a show his distaste for the squalor Keith lived and breathed now.

Regardless, Shiro stayed because he had to. Keith stayed, too, with nowhere else to go, and they bled together.

“It’ll also allow you the opportunity to get out of this cramped little room. You already look as though you’ve lost quite a bit of weight since you arrived,” Shiro had said, voice filled with tentative optimism.

“If they fed me more, it might not be so noticeable,” Keith responded. With a pinch, he squeezed at his own cut harshly, hastening the flow of his own blood until it clotted far too much for his ministrations to be of any use. Gods, he was tired of this already. How much could two people possibly bleed? “Anyway, I’m not so certain about this banquet thing. I feel like all I’d do is accidentally piss people off while making you look bad. I’ve never been particularly good at acting, you know.”

“That’s fine. Perfect, actually. If you continue to act up, then it’ll make the whole game that much more believable. Not to mention, you’ll be able to finally eat your fill there.”

“I guess I don’t really have much to lose at this point,” Keith muttered, and Shiro smiled genially in response.

“It’ll be fine. We’ll make this work.”

The blood had finally ceased to flow. Shiro hastily stood to dispose of it, but, right before he left for the bathroom, Keith had found himself peering into the basin curiously.

Together, their blood made quite the wretched sight — thick, dark, and disgustingly cacophonous. If a fortune teller were to look in and attempt any sort of reading, they’d probably revolt.

Or laugh.

Because they should’ve known. The mixing of alpha and omega blood never went well.

 

_See, look there — they can’t even properly mingle together. The divide runs clear. They will not form a union. Not the kind you want, at least._

_Because you’ve created a curse, a pact with the Devil, from this oath of yours, and what could you possibly do once he comes to reap his reward?_

_Not a single damn thing, you weak, pitiful fool._

 

That had been two days ago.

Now, Keith finds himself, once again, cramped thin inside his tiny closet of a room alongside Romelle as she trusses him up in preparation for the grand event itself. In her hands lay long strings of gold and jewels, all of which seem to mock Keith as they swing through the air, like a pendulum counting down to something positively horrific and harrowing.

A long, winding necklace — or is it actually several strands of gold intertwined? — swings left. At the same time, a heavy bracelet adorned with several baubles and jewels dips to the right. Keith watches them both until a nasty headache begins to form.

He blinks the image away with a sigh. “You sure I need all of that? I’m just a concubine, right? I don’t see why I need to be so done up for a fancy dinner party.”

“We need to make it look like you’re highly-prized by Prince Shiro. Hopefully, such blatant favoritism will help deter any suspicions from the others. Instead, we’ll present you as someone he enjoys pursuing and showing off,” Romelle explains, expression calm and hands gentle as she sweeps away Keith’s hair to easier clasp the most ornate necklace behind his need.

“To hear you speak of such things so casually is both infuriating and impressive.”

“You learn to take these things in stride with time. I must say, humans are surprisingly adaptable.”

“Too bad the Arena can’t seem to adapt to the times,” Keith grumbles.

Romelle huffs out a quiet laughs. Her breath brushes sweetly against Keith’s wrist as she fastens on a delicate bracelet made of pure gold and the biggest rubies Keith has ever seen, and it feels strangely comforting.

“Well, I guess we can only hope for so much from humans sometimes,” she whispers, soft and forlorn.

Her fingers flutter around his neck, innocuous. The click of the collar strikes him as ominous, however.

They’ve dressed him up in gold. Even the collar they’ve so graciously given him is made of solid gold. He can tell. The weight itself is telling — heavy and sumptuous, he might just suffocate beneath it.

And what a way to go that would be. Asphyxiated by an omega collar.

Fitting.

He frowns as Romelle draws away from him. The jewelry weighs him much more than those damn chains ever did, and all he wants is to tear them off so he can watch those presumptuous crystals shatter beneath his feet.

He doesn’t. He keeps them on and even gives Romelle a stiff smile to top it all off.

“I guess so,” he whispers.

 

* * *

 

 

“You look perfect. Romelle really did a great job with getting you ready,” Shiro says when they finally converge, mere minutes before their scheduled entrance to dinner.

“But I feel like a damn fool. I’m pretty sure everyone can see every hair on my asshole with how thin these cloths are,” Keith says. He steps forward, beckoned by Shiro, and the way his jewels clink together grates on his ears.

“Such is the price of showing off to others, or something,” a young man says — Lance, if Keith remembers correctly. He smirks for a moment, only dropping it for a wry, apologetic smile when Keith turns to look at him.

“Didn’t think saving face would take so much work on my part, but I guess a pact is a pact,” Keith sighs. “Let’s get this over with then.”

“Alright. It is almost time. Just remember, you must kneel at my side at all times, and you can only rise to your feet when I request something of you or if I give you permission. Furthermore, you’re not permitted to speak unless spoken to by me, first. As for anyone else… Well, you can ignore them if you’d like,” Shiro says. “That might actually be easier for you, all things considered.”

“Afraid I’ll embarrass you?” Keith asks, teeth bared.

“I just don’t want you to feel even uncomfortable.”

“Too late for that,” Keith grumbles under his breath because they have already reached the heavy, iron-wrought doors leading to the banquet hall. He swallows once, beyond himself despite the ire he directs towards himself for such blatant displays of — what, weakness? Fear? The sudden and stark realization of what exactly has happened to him since being taken away, for now he cannot hide away in his paltry but solitary room within the harem wing?

The truth creeps over one slowly, Keith thinks, with a wave of languish reserved for something absolutely indelible and arcanely inescapable. Why run when one can saunter, blessed with the knowledge that everyone will forever await your exalted arrival? They wait and wait, and, sometimes, they even receive.

Keith, too, finally sinks into the true extent of his situation as he passes through the golden-gilded doorway into the royal banquet hall. So bright are the lights surrounding him. So dazzling they gleam, adorned with sun-kissed crystals and moon-spun sapphires. They swirl in time with the flurry of the waiters’ coattails and cravats, and Keith can’t fucking breathe.

He’s a concubine now. He’s always been an omega, but now he’s an _omega_.

And Shiro is his godforsaken king.

Keith blinks, and his chest barely lifts. But it lifts, and he breathes.

He casts a sidelong glance in Shiro’s direction and receives nothing in return. However, he is afforded a chance to look up at Shiro’s profile properly for once. This might be the closest they’ve ever been; it may not, considering their slap-shod stint together two days prior. Like this, though, striding a few steps behind Shiro as per protocol, he has an excellent view of Shiro’s face — the pertinent parts, at least.

From here, Keith spots a cut jawline still swathed in the barest hint of fat, smooth and well-loved from a lifetime in the lap of luxury. The wisps of dark hair at Shiro’s nape curl around his ears untamed despite Romelle’s valiant attempts at soothing them. Ever free and willful they move, while the tuft of white across Shiro’s bangs herald its own kind of juvenile bliss.

Keith’s jealous of them. The hair. It’s a woefully laughable notion, but it’s completely true.

He despises them all for it.

Except, then he spots the hesitant twinkle in Shiro’s eyes; the dark irises glow bright under the innumerable lights shining above them, and the bespeak far too much for a man with such a tenuous hold on those around him. If she were here to see it now, Keith’s mother would laugh herself into a madness at the sight alone.

As it stands, Keith can only resent Shiro even more. Out of all the Princes of the Arena he could’ve been saddled up with, he gets the one that’s green.

But maybe he deserves such a fate. As Shiro silently beckons Keith down to his knees on the mockingly plush pillow on the floor beside his intricately-decorated dining chair, Keith wonders if the curse has already begun.

 

* * *

 

 

For all the pomp and circumstance that goes into the preparations for a royal banquet, the actual event itself proves to be nothing if not painstakingly dull. As a member of the Royal Family, Shiro sits at the grandest table of them all, surrounded by his brothers and Council members. Throughout the meal, they all pay each other little mind, except to gift each other snide remarks as they fill themselves silly with food and drinks. Shiro doesn’t even make any attempts to liven conversation up like the calm, composed man he apparently enjoys painting himself as, and Keith…

He’s fucking _bored_ with this whole affair.

Predictably, no one speaks to him. Oh, they all send plenty of furtive glances his way, eyeing him up before raking appraising gazes up and down Shiro’s figure, but they don’t pay him any real mind. Only Shiro gives him any genuine attention, but his actions are limited to fingers in Keith’s hair and palms pressed firmly against Keith’s nape.

Down against the gold collar. A reminder. Of everything.

But otherwise, Keith’s left to entertain himself with nothing of any entertainment.

From somewhere across the room, a little corner where Romelle currently stands serving guests, a laugh erupts. Then, it ripples, raucous and joyous, like school kids skipping stones for their parents to watch and coo over.

Evidently, even the filthy rich can laugh like that.

Suddenly, Shiro dips his head down. His hand, warm and adorned with solid flesh and the faint hint of a heartbeat, rests heavy on Keith’s shoulder.

“Keith,” is all Shiro says.

Keith tips his head, hiding his mouth from prying eyes before responding.

“What? I haven’t done anything wrong, have I? I have literally just sat here awaiting a death by boredom this whole time.”

“No, you’ve performed wonderfully. I simply wanted to check up on you,” Shiro whispers.

“My legs have gone so numb I’d think they were missing if I weren’t awake to stare idly at them.”

Shiro chuckles, only to hide it under the pretense of a displeased grunt when a few faces turn to look a bit too closely.

“Well, then how about serving me my next glass of wine?” Shiro suggests.

Keith blinks his eyes slowly, unimpressed.

Shiro just gives him an almost imperceptible shrug in response. “My apologies. I know it’s not exactly exciting work. In fact, it’s demeaning. Rest assured, I’m well aware. At the very least, it’ll help you stretch your legs for a spell, if you’re interested.”

“Well, I suppose any work, demeaning or not, is better than just sitting here for heaven knows how many more hours. I can’t even twiddle my thumbs here, or else you’d have to punish me in front of everyone here for my impertinence.” Keith pauses, and he chances the risk of giving Shiro a nasty smirk. “Unless you think punishing me here will be beneficial for us.”

“No punishments please,” Shiro sighs, as if _he’s_ the one who must stand bare to endure an arbitrary amount of lashes for his impertinence. “We can leave your serving me as punishment enough, yes?”

“Whatever you say. You’re the alpha here.”

With that, Shiro draws away before beckoning Keith up from his place. It takes Keith more effort than he’d like after all that time kneeling, but eventually he stands. And, when he does, he stands tall.

Everyone watches him now. Like starved dogs limping along the edge of the village, they watch him with bright eyes and chalices raised, hiding the sick grins they undoubtedly wear.

The whispers pick up as the serving maid carefully hands him a sizable goblet of wine. The drink sloshes nebulously within the gold bowl, thick and deep. Against his better reasoning, Keith stares down into it as soon as the surface settles.

And, just like before, he sees a contemptible parody of himself that is, undeniably, _him_.

Keith’s mother had always preferred white wine to red. Now Keith knows why. As he watches his face melt and morph within the ripples of garnet and blackberry red, he understands why his mother loved white wine with an acute pang searing through his chest. 

The answer is so simple it hurts. Why could he never understand his mother like this before when it meant something?

Then, Shiro breaks him out of his reverie.

Shiro gestures for Keith to begin pouring the wine, eyebrows creased and brow bridge furrowed; he’s concerned, but, if questioned, could pass the look for exasperation. That’s the only grace Keith can glean from this situation. Hesitantly, then with a surge of impatience, Keith goes and he pours.

The red wine flows out beautifully, and he pours more.

And more.

All the while, the other omegas, older ones that were favored by Shiro’s father, watch Keith with envy and loss. He undergoes great pains to avoid their gaze as he tips the goblet further, but it’s hard.

They look at him with a different kind of desire. A kind Keith is intimately acquainted with himself. They look on, always.

Like starved dogs.

Everyone here is starved.

“Keith.” Shiro’s voice cuts out through the baited silence. “Don’t you think that’s enough?”

Keith looks down. Shiro’s glass is overflowing. The wine has begun spreading across the fine tablecloth, beneath the finest of silverware. Over and over it flows, until the other guests at the table startle away. They must keep their rich cloths clean, after all. It would be a shame for them to sully a single iota for their wealth. Flaunting it is the only option. Mercy and charity exist only in the dreams of the weak.

And Shiro doesn’t budge in the slightest.

“Enough?” Keith asks lightly. His voice exists somewhere beyond himself now. He floats, but his head is so heavy. “There could never be enough drink for me in a place as suffocating as this grand castle of yours. If you don’t want it, I’ll gladly drink it. It might help me forget that I'm here, even if temporarily.”

Silence falls over them, thick like the shawls Keith’s mother used to fit him with in preparation for the colder months. It feels far less comforting now, however, and Keith wonders if this show of disrespect will be the end of it all. He's not sure if that's a blessing or the curse.

Except, Shiro does not immediately call for the guards to haul Lance away in preparation for a grand execution. Instead, and quite unexpectedly, Shiro laughs. He laughs, and it's loud and genuine; he, too, is nothing more than a sweet schoolboy now, shoving half-wilted wildflowers in his mother’s hand all for the sake of love.

Keith finally stops pouring.

"Then have it," Shiro says when his laughing fit ends. "Drink it. Drink as much as you want. I won't stop you. I’ll even care for you, if you get sick. That is quite the glassful.”

  
Keith narrows his eyes. They had not planned for this. They have no contingency plan for this. "I don't understand what you mean."

"I mean what I said," is all Shiro says in response. "Drink up. I hope it makes you feel a bit better, being stuck here in such an abhorrent place with me."

Keith pauses for a moment and watches Shiro expression. He sees no hint of treachery. In fact, this might be Shiro’s version of a show without punishments. Portray Keith as a brat who Shiro has deigned to kill with kindness.

Well, he could’ve come up with a wrose ploy.

So, slowly, Keith raises the ridiculously full goblet to his lips and chugs. A few drops slip out the side of his mouth in his eager haste, dripping quick and tenacious down his jaw, but Shiro just laughs again at the sight, all knobby knees and wildflowers still.

Suddenly, Keith thinks that, maybe, Shiro might not be an entirely useless princeling.

 

* * *

 

 

The rest of the night, Keith once again kneels beside Shiro. Now that his task of being a glorified wine-pourer has come and gone, he must reclaim his proper station at Shiro’s feet. Regardless, Shiro remains true to his word, freely letting Keith drink as much as he wants.

Ultimately, all the drink Keith wants is too much drink.

He can't even feign sense or stability by the end. He leans his head wearily against Shiro's leg, and, even ridiculously inebriated, he can sense that the audience they perform before find the display vexing, to say the least. Shiro merely waves a few vague gestures and grants them a handful of choice words before resting a heavy hand in Keith’s hair.

He does not do so as a gesture of affection, nor is it a symbol of possession. No. It’s nothing that serious. Shiro’s simply trying to keep Keith’s head tilted down in case he hurls because their oath would mean little if Keith choked to death on his own vomit so early on.

Keith considers himself both grateful for and aggrieved by the gesture.

And this time Shiro lays his prosthetic upon Keith. Maybe he’s alternated hands lest Keith actually puke. Keith supposes that a quintessence-fueled prosthetic could manhandle a sick man easier than a human arm. Or perhaps it was done on a whim. A passing fancy.

Maybe Shiro wants to remind Keith of just easily he could kill him, if he were ever so inclined. A simple flick of his wrist and Keith’s scalp would fly.

Of course, Shiro doesn't do anything so base. Instead, he lets his hand rest gently, and, occasionally, he even rakes his fingers over Keith’s scalp. Oddly enough, the brush of metal tips across the crown of Keith’s head feels halfway reminiscent to his mother's touch. So much so that Keith dozes.

He swears it lasts for just a moment. After all, how could he possibly rest fully when knelt at the side of his alpha ‘benefactor’? But, then he wakes up and finds the banquet hall nearly empty save him, Shiro, and a smattering of the servants and maids set about tidying the place.

"Did you sleep well?" Shiro asks when he notices Keith waking. And that's all he asks.

"Yes," Keith whispers. "Surprisingly."

"That's good."

“But you should’ve woken me up. I’m sure letting me sleep like that couldn’t have possibly done you any favors,” Keith says.

Shiro shrugs. “You’d be surprised be the things that catch the palace’s fancy. According to Lance, rumors have already spread about how I only allowed you to drink so much so I could easily coerce you into bed with me tonight. Or, if that one displeases you, there’s also talk that you were so fatigued after my rigorous ‘training’ the past few nights.”

He grins down at Keith with what looks like rows upon rows of teeth in the dimmed lights.

“Of course, there are more beyond those two. There are always more.”

“I’m not surprised,” Keith scoffs. “For all you’re worth, you guys spend an astounding doing nothing except sit on your asses all day coming up with fanciful stories to amuse yourself with.”

He speaks with as much vehemence as he can manage. Unfortunately, the tail end of his miniature tirade ends in a wide yawn.

Shiro watches him mirthfully. Keith snarls until the smile drops.

“Anyway, I didn’t know it was even possible, but sitting on my ass doing nothing with all of you has left me fucking exhausted,” Keith says.

Shiro sighs ruefully. “You’re telling me. I live like this.”

“Woe is the life of the ones who have it all,” Keith deadpans.

“Not everything. I sometimes think I have never once possessed anything I ever wanted,” Shiro gusts quietly, gaze far away and forlorn.

Keith wonders what he sees. Then, he decides he doesn’t care.

If anyone should wear such an expression, Keith believes he bears that right alone.

“Save the sob story for later. We have some rumors to fuel.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But it must be nice, having the touch of someone familiar smooth across one’s face — reverently, akin to a child stroking a beloved pet in its final moments. Like a mother cradling her newborn to her bosom, sweaty and worn to tearful remnants from the exertion of childbirth yet unabashedly delighted with the result.
> 
> So nice. A pocket of joy.

“Well, looks like your first big, official dinner together was a roaring success. I hope you can rest a bit easier now. I’d love to see you not glaring at me so intensely, you know.”

Keith rolls his eyes. Lance frowns even deeper from the other side of the room — which is to say, from a mere two feet away from where Keith lays because this damn box they call a bedroom was not designed to house two people. Recently, Keith has been inundated with more and more visitors, all thanks to Shiro and his constantly meddling and insistence on ‘ensuring that Keith’s well-tended to’.

As if Keith’s ever proven himself incapable of tending to his own basic needs. Regardless, he now has a carousel of people rotating through his cramped little door, and he finds the whole ordeal infuriating.

Evidently, babysitting duty falls on Shiro’s personal knight, Lance, today. He offers Keith a sheepish, unsure grin from the doorway, mouth stretched wide and vulnerable.

He’s young still, even more so than Shiro. Possibly even younger than Keith. The thought of the fate of the Arena resting in such youthful, inexperienced hands strikes Keith as regrettably apropos.

His eyes dart here and there as he awaits Keith’s response. They’re big and blue, all wrapped up in innocence and hope beneath a mess of brown hair. Part of Keith finds the visage refreshing; compared to the other Arena soldiers Keith has had the misfortune of interacting with, Lance is positively saintly. A pillar of goodness so tall he might reach the Gods themselves if he can stretch his fingertips far enough.

But he falls short in the end, and his smile finally fades. Keith can only stare on unimpressed.

“And what, exactly, is your definition of success?” Keith asks.

Lance sighs. The pillar crumbles. Keith bites his cheek in vindicated shame. Sometimes, he regrets being like this — aloof and cynical. Other times, he revels in it.

Today, he’s unsure.

“Well, you and Shiro are definitely the talk of the town right now. Except not really of the town. Just of the castle, but this place is so big and insulated it might as well be its own isolated little village,” Lance rambles haltingly. “Either way, everyone has plenty to say about your little show at dinner.”

“Yeah? And what are they saying? Shiro’s only told me a bit, and I get the impression that Romelle’s not one to pay attention to such mundane gossip.”

“Depends. What kinda stuff are you in the mood to hear?”

Keith’s face nearly cracks at the seams from the spread of his smile, wide, severe, and unfamiliar. “Hit me with the worst of it. I’m not afraid of a little vulgarity.”

Lance smirks, and he looks alive for once.

“Well, I think the worst one I’ve heard so far is the rumor that you impressed Shiro so thoroughly by taking not only two but _three_ dicks at once. Because that’s how omega assholes work, apparently — infinitely stretchable and loving every minute of it.”

Lance scoffs, and Keith cackles despite himself, manic like a dying man condemned to Hell.

“I _wish_ it always felt that good no matter what,” Keith says slyly.

“Don’t we all? Anyway, some people even have money down for who was involved in that illustrious gang bang of yours. They’re hoping Shiro’ll will accidentally let it slip, so they’ve been hanging around him even more than usual, offering him this and that to loosen him up.”

“And you?” Keith asks. “Who are you betting on?”

“Myself of course. I may not be an alpha, but I’m pretty impressive myself. A perfect candidate for a royal orgy.”

Another laugh. Maybe Lance heralds something halfway-decent for the Arena after all. At the very least, he might be fun to talk to, on occasion.

“Though,” Lance continues, “I think my personal favorite is the talk of how Shiro adores you oh-so much simply because you’re the first person who’s been able to deep-throat Shiro’s massively impressive cock. More specifically, all twelve by two inches of it.”

“Gods, I would be impressed too, if I weren’t so horrified,” Keith mutters.

“But don’t worry. It’s not nearly that big outside of the wild imaginations of the castle denizens. Though, at least all this talk has helped him curry favor with some of the more impressionable Council members.”

“Is that why he’s barely taken the time to see me for the past two weeks now? Too busy kissing ass?” Keith questions. “Our little dinner time stunt will only occupy the castle’s minds for so long. We need to come up with something else. Preferably soon.”

“That’s why I’m here. Shiro’s been busy recently, dealing with the whims of the Council members and all the people trying to see for themselves just how big his dick is, but he’s available today. So, if you’re ready, I can take him to you now.”

“Let’s go. Anything to get me out of here. I’ve never been particularly good at being held captive and idle.”

“I’ll make sure Shiro takes not of that,” Lance teases, and, if Keith laughs to himself again at that, Shiro doesn’t need to know.

 

* * *

 

 

Shiro greets Keith dressed in his bathrobe, hair still damp and skin positively glowing. Undoubtedly, he’s been done up with numerous hydrating and anti-aging salves. Like this, he looks just like the other harem omegas do after they’ve finished with the communal showers except far more pampered.

Because, before they retreat back into their own dingy, decrepit quarters, several of the other omegas like to huddle around a few jars and tubes of skincare in the communal bathrooms, slathering the creams over each other’s faces with skinny fingers and somber eyes. It seems to Keith that they’ve turned the entire affair into a lovely little ritual. Without even changing, they settle themselves onto the molded tile floors, legs crossed and knees pressed firmly together. It must be warm, the contact they share. Must be nice now that winter’s begun to creep in.

After all, no one has fixed the faulty heater in the harem halls yet. Romelle keeps smiling at Keith sweetly whenever he inquires about a potential solution, but days have passed, and they are cold still.

But it must be nice, having the touch of someone familiar smooth across one’s face — reverently, akin to a child stroking a beloved pet in its final moments. Like a mother cradling her newborn to her bosom, sweaty and worn to tearful remnants from the exertion of childbirth yet unabashedly delighted with the result.

So nice. A pocket of joy.

They giggle at each other as they pass along a battered tube of some kind of face cream. Eyes alight, hands brush. In the moments, they look happy.

How nice. Rarely has he ever seen another person look so breathtaking as they do in that moment. Honestly, he never even knew people could look so stunning.

But Keith doesn’t approach them. He doesn’t really know how.

Nonetheless, he’s jealous of them, even if they’ve concocted this nightly ritual partly because what good is an omega who isn’t beautiful? Maybe one day the new owner of the harem will finally cast his gaze upon them. Whether he looks upon them lustfully matters little; as long as he takes note, there’s a mockery of meaning to their lives.

Because Shiro’s a coward who just can’t set them free. He can’t even look their way.

That coward stands before Keith right now. Like this, hair dripping and deep collar bones peeking through the opening of his robe, he looks, admittedly, _good_.

None of that changes how pissed Keith is at him.

“About time you finally called me over here,” Keith says. “I was starting to think you might’ve forgotten about our deal.”

“Of course not. We made an oath. Such things are not so easily forgotten,” Shiro responds smoothly.

That asshole. Of course he responds smoothly.

“So? You have any brilliant ideas for our next little show?” Keith asks.

“About that — I’ve been invited to act as the Arena’s ambassador to a local duchy. According to the Council members who nominated me, the Duchess Allura has been refusing to share an adequate amount of the quintessence ores the region possesses.” Shiro pauses, and his eyes rove across Keith’s expression — searching desperately. He digs deep, eyes dark and lustrous. They are so different compared to Lance’s, and yet infinitely similar in the way they gleam with ignorance.

Keith has nothing to offer him.

Shiro ceases his excavation with a light frown. “I’d like to invite you to come along with me.”

Keith tilts his head to the side. “You want me to be your traveling cock-warmer, huh?”

Shiro splutters so hard he coughs up a honking chunk of phlegm in his attempt to calm himself. So much for being a handsome, well-adjusted prince.

“I wouldn’t put it those words, exactly, but I suppose that is the general implication I hope to convey,” Shiro eventually grunts when he’s mostly recovered from his self-induced near-death experience. “That is, if you want to.”

“I haven’t forgotten the oath either. I’m just concerned that your favor for me is a bit too blatant. Unnatural.”

Shiro shakes his head. “Honestly, I wouldn’t worry about that too much. From what I can tell, people are enjoying the spectacle they’ve devised for us. Part of the appeal so far is the speculation for why I’m so taken by you.”

“Yes, Lance told me a few of the more _interesting_ rumors.”

Upon hearing Keith’s words, Shiro flushes far too red for a grown man. He looks as if he’s never had a single uncouth thought in his entire life. It’s a laughable notion for such a virile alpha.

And, truly, Keith doesn’t entirely appreciate such contrived looks of cherubic innocence from a coward.

“My apologies. I know it’s to be expected, but I never wanted you to hear about the more crude gossip. I’ll make sure to reprimand Lance for it,” Shiro says.

“Why bother? I asked him to tell me. I think it benefits the both of us for me to be aware of such things, and you won’t tell me anything, so it makes sense for me to get my information elsewhere, yeah?”

“If you say so,” Shiro sighs. “Anyway, this little excursion will give us a chance to get away and speak a bit more about our plans without the risk of any prying eyes and ears. I think it’s a great opportunity for us.”

“A great opportunity for me to escape,” Keith says lightly.

Shiro’s eyebrows knight together tight. The wrinkles coil together, swirling frantically as a snake without a head, but his frown is infinitely more off-putting.

He frowns like he means it. Like he understands Keith’s plight intimately, sore and sure.

Like he’s fucking _sorry_.

“Sorry,” Shiro whispers because of course he does. Of course he must be awash with sorrow for the poor, omega concubine he owns. “If I had been wiser, I would never have forged this oath with you in the first place. Then you really could’ve escaped.”

Keith purses his lips so hard he tastes blood. “I don’t need your apologies now. Even if we hadn’t made an oath, you could have never let me go anyway. Doing so would only taint your reputation, and where would you be without that? What happened to wanting to become king for the sake of all your people?”

Shiro’s gaze fall. This time, Keith’s the one to search the expanse of Shiro’s face with bloody hands and flayed nail beds. Beneath it all, the scar and pampered skin, Keith finds remorse.

And he hates that.

Because Shiro is good. He’s a good man, ultimately, soaked in and bloated with concerned virtuosity. Furthermore, compared to many of the other castle denizens, he’s practically the Holy Deliverer himself.

But he could be so much better.

Keith supposes he could say the same for himself.

So he sighs, and he unclenches the fist he can’t remember ever coiling in the first place.

“Now is not the time for resolve to waver,” Keith says quietly. “For both you and me.”

“I know”, Shiro gusts, and he looks so young and pitiful as he speaks. Not to mention, constipated. It’s a waste of an infuriatingly attractive face, to be honest. “I know. But that doesn’t mean I can’t feel regretful for what I’ve roped you into.”

Keith sighs. Who knew handsome alpha princes could be so stupidly sentimental during the most inopportune moments?

“If you really want to make it up to me, would you mind getting someone to look at fixing up the harem halls? The entire wing is falling apart under your very nose, and you have the audacity to sit back and act as if the whole thing has nothing to do with you,” he snaps impatiently.

Askance, Shiro blinks the confusion from his eyes. “What do you mean? The harem isn’t my —“

Shiro stops himself. The realization dawns upon him in waves, and the emotions that flood him move with them.

The truth creeps on one slowly, a sinister creature of contempt. Keith knows that now. Apparently, Shiro, too, has come to understand as much.

Eventually, the storm calms, and the tides cease. Shiro’s expression settles in time with the final squall, smoothed into a brand of determination that Keith, this time, does not hate it.

In fact, he appreciates it.

“You’re right,” Shiro breathes. He inhaled deeply, winded as if wounded before continuing, tone firm and stalwart. “I’m sorry. Truly. I’ve been acting disgracefully by neglecting my duties, but I promise to do better. After all, how can I hope to reform the Arena when I can’t even attend to such basic tasks?”

He smiles at Keith tentatively after finishing his little speech. Keith gives the silence a few moments to stretch itself thin before he, finally, smiles back.

“But talk is cheap. So are sudden resolutions.”

“Yes, I suppose they are a dime a dozen,” Shiro notes wistfully. “But I’ll… try.”

“At the very least, try to mask your disdain for the omegas here. They don’t particularly like any of you, either, but they’re depending on you. You’re the only reason they’re here,” Keith says.

“I don’t hate them,” Shiro replies breathlessly. “I pity them.”

Keith scowls. “Wrong answer.”

“I know. That’s why I avoid them. You. I don’t want to mock them even more than I already do just by owning them.”

“Then maybe it’s time to go ahead and finally do us all a favor,” Keith snaps. Truly, Shiro is a damn right fool. “My suggestions would be to start with fixing the ventilation in the bathrooms first. I’d love to be able to relieve myself without nearly passing out from noxious fumes.”

Shiro blinks owlishly, taken aback and childlike. Then, he grins, and it’s blinding. “You got it. I’ll even make sure to pack extra pies for our trip, just for you. You’re finally starting to gain some weight back.”

“Are you calling me fat?”

This time, Shiro laughs. “Of course not. You look good like this — healthy. Alive. I like it.”

Keith, against his volition, smiles back.

Shiro looks far too pleased with that.

In fact, Keith almost laughs with him at the absurdity of it all, except the iron collar on his neck weighs too heavy for something so light.

 

* * *

 

 

Keith rides with Romelle on their journey to the Duchy of Altea, a region of the Arena that, long ago, boasted a glorious independent sovereignty due to its rich stores of quintessence. The people had been a generally amiable bunch, taking great care to remain as neutral as possible in the face of any neighboring squabbles, all made possible by that damn quintessence.

Zarkon had not looked upon them as favorably.

Last Keith heard, the Altea had been quickly ‘assimilated’ under the Arena’s rule following the unfortunate passing of King Alfor. Unsurprisingly, of course. The then-princess Allura had been young then, unfit to command and army against the Arena’s forces.

Regardless, the scenery streaking past them during their trip looks stunning. The inner corners of the Arena don’t lay claim to anything like the high mountain spires or foaming rivers surrounding them now. They don’t even have half of the creatures they see now.

The capital’s too filthy for that.

Keith watches the way the plains melt into mountains with a detached intrigue. Romelle, on the other hand, looks absolutely delighted.

“You look excited,” Keith notes. The towering figure of the castle finally falls away behind them completely, and he feels giddy at its absence. If he weren’t so pleased he’d feel embarrassed.

But Romelle shows no qualms for her overt display of elation.

“Of course I’m excited! I haven’t been back to Altea in years. I’m so happy Prince Shiro took me along with him,” she exclaims in a string of hurried words. They run into each other towards the end, toppling over one in another in their frenzy to reach whatever destination they’ve chosen, but Keith feels the sentiment nonetheless.

Not to mention, the look in her eyes speaks of tomes and tomes beyond her words themselves.

They song hymns of love and longing. A home of hope and content — like sinking into the gentle lapping of waves on the ocean while the sun bears down on one’s face with a rare gentle heat. Keith knows, for he has seen such looks before in his mother’s eyes.

He misses her.

“Oh,” she continues, leaning her head out the carriage window until her blonde braids sway in the wind, “look over there! Those mountain sides are famous for the juniberry flower fields that completely cover them. It’s really a sight to behold, you know.”

Keith squints, but he can’t spot a single flowerscape in sight.

“Is now not the right season?” he asks.

Romelle doesn’t draw her head back into the carriage. Instead, she continues to gaze outside with wistful eyes. The hair resting on the top of her head has become a right mess, and her cheeks blotchy red from the buffeting wind, but, still, she leans out further with nothing more than a bereft sigh.

“It’s always the right season for juniberry flowers. Just not the right time.” She speaks softly, her words muffled into smoke on the water by the wind, but they sound so loud to Keith regardless.

So, so loud, and he hears it all.

With an apologetic smile she returns to her seat, and every remnant of her former, fleeting adulation ebbs away into the ether as if they were nothing. Somehow, she still manages to smile, even after the pass by the mountains into a heavily-forested area.

“But it’s still nice,” she whispers. “It’s nice to be back.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Keith says quietly. He, too, would like to go back.

But it’s just not the right time.


End file.
